


The Blood-dimmed Tide

by Parda



Series: Blood Cousins [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Blood, Apocalypse, Demon Blood, Supernatural Season 5, humor: just a speck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5852584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parda/pseuds/Parda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Heaven watches and the Apocalypse draws closer, Sam and Dean work with their distant cousin Ruth, who wants to kill the Archangel Michael for what he did to her brother -- anyway she can.  Meanwhile, Chuck explains some facts of life to Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Falcon Cannot Hear

### Saturday, 13 March 2010 - Kripke Hollow, Ohio

_They didn’t make it in time._

“That’s a good line to end on,” Chuck said, nodding to himself in satisfaction at the words on the screen.

Not that he bothered that much about plot and pacing these days. Or foreshadowing or symbolism or character development or point of view. He still watched his punctuation, grammar, and spelling, of course, but what he wrote would never be published in book form, so he didn’t worry about putting the scenes together; he just wrote them as they came. He didn’t have much of a choice, really; the visions hammered inside his head until he was done.

But anyway, a cliff hanger was always good. With the Winchester boys, sometimes they actually were hanging from a cliff. But this time, it was just demons. A lot of demons, it’s true, but just demons.

Chuck took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes then yawned and stretched in his desk chair. He saved the file and powered the computer down. Time for lunch. Or dinner. Or something. He’d lost track of time.

That didn’t matter much, either. He ate when he was hungry and slept when he could. The rest of the time, he wrote, feverishly chronicling the adventures of Sam and Dean in the final days before the apocalypse. Less than two months to go.

But right now, he needed to go to the grocery store. And—a quick check of the refrigerator and the cupboards confirmed—the liquor store. He let his bathrobe slide off his shoulders, picked out jeans and a T shirt from the pile on the couch and got dressed, decided not to bother with combing his hair, then got in his battered VW bug and drove.

When his car was full of groceries. Castiel the angel appeared in the passenger seat. “Jesus Christ!” Chuck breathed, his heart pounding in fright as he yanked his car back into his lane.

“No,” came the gravel-voiced reply. “This vessel still carries Castiel.”

“Right, uh, yeah,” Chuck managed. “Ok.” A guy on a motorcycle wearing a black leather jacket decorated with a red-skulled demon was glaring at him from about four feet away. Chuck tried a little friendly wave and an apologetic smile. The motorcyclist gave him the finger and drove away. Chuck sighed. “Um, Castiel?” he ventured. “You’re sitting on a carton of eggs.”

“The seat does feel… crunchy,” Castiel said thoughtfully. “I thought it was common to all ‘bugs’.”

“No.”

He waved his hand. “I made the eggs go away.” He shifted in the seat then nodded. “Much more comfortable now.”

Chuck sighed again. He’d been looking forward to an omelet tonight. Then he looked in his rear view mirror and swore. Flashing lights. Cops. Just great. “Castiel, please put your seatbelt on,” he said as he started looking for a good place to pull over.

“I am wearing a belt.”

“Not your pants belt,” Chuck explained. “Your seat belt.” Castiel looked at him blankly, and Chuck swore again. Seat belts hadn’t been required until 1968, and the Impala (the only other vehicle Castiel had ever been in) had come off the line in April of 1967. The Winchesters didn’t bother with seatbelts. Which was foolhardy of them, but considering all deadly crap they dealt with every day, not surprising.

Chuck parked next to the dented guardrail. Castiel looked at him and asked, “Why are we stopping?”

“The police officer wants to talk to me.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Oh?” This was not exactly good news, but at least now Chuck knew why Castiel was here.

“I will make the police officer go away,” Castiel announced, lifting his hand.

“NO!” Chuck said, and miracle of miracle, Castiel’s hand stopped in midwave. “We’ll be done soon,” Chuck said. He hoped. Just a warning, maybe a reminder to get that rear taillight fixed. Hopefully not a ticket for breaking the seatbelt law. “Just, please… put your seatbelt on now.”

The cop had gotten out of the police car. Castiel was studying the belt across Chuck’s lap. “Why?”

“It’s the law.”

“I did not know that law.” He sounded a little abashed; angels were used to obeying. “How is it done?”

“Grab the belt near your right shoulder and insert the tab into the buckle near your left hip,” Chuck instructed. A flight attendant would have been proud.

Castiel turned his head to look at it. “It’s too short,” he announced. “I believe it’s defective.”

“You have to pull on it to make it longer.”

Castiel yanked, and Chuck let out a yelp of protest “It’s definitely too short,” Castiel said, giving short, sharp tugs. “And now it won’t move.”

“Not so hard,” Chuck said. “First let go, and then pull gently.” Castiel seemed to be getting the hang of it, and Chuck said, “You can use both hands,” while he lifted himself up a little to pull his wallet out of his back pocket.

“Oh,” said Castiel. “Yes, that’s better.” He kept pulling, hand over hand, then announced, “It stopped moving again.”

“That’s all there is,” Chuck told him, working on getting his license out. The extra belt length on Castiel’s lap would have gone around an elephant.

“Now I put it in?”

“Now you put it in,” Chuck agreed. Castiel bent his head to examine the tab more closely then started to hunt for the buckle. “Here,” Chuck said, reaching between the seats then turning to help. Then he had to lean over, trying to untangle the belt before “inserting the tab in the buckle” because somehow Castiel had managed to get the belt in a figure eight Mobius strip.

And so it was, that when the tap of the police officer sounded on the window, Chuck had his face buried in the lap of an angel.

He twisted around to see the familiar face of Melanie Patterson, his tenth grade biology partner, all grown-up and wearing a uniform. She’d gotten pregnant in twelfth grade, married the guy, had the baby, then gotten divorced within the year. He’d been drunk and abusive, so people said, and she’d lived with her folks until little Dani started kindergarten. Melanie had taken criminal justice classes at the community college and become a cop, specializing in domestic abuse cases. She was studying to be a lawyer and wanted to be a judge some day.

Chuck sat up in a hurry, banging his elbow on the steering wheel. He shook his head to clear out yet another person’s life story from his brain. He didn’t need any more of those. “Um, hi, Melanie.”

“Hi, Chuck.” Her words were toneless, her face expressionless. “Who’s your … friend?”

“His name is Castiel. He’s … um … just visiting. “

“I am from L.A.,” Castiel volunteered.

Dean had taught him to say that. “If people think Castiel is from California,” Dean had correctly observed, “no one will think much of it when he pulls some weird crap. Tell them you’re from L.A., Cas.“

“San Francisco is weirder than L.A.,” Bobby had said.

“But he’s an angel, so he’s from Los Angeles. OK?”

And Castiel had said OK. But the city hadn’t been named for angels; it was named for their queen. The tiny mission settlement of Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles had grown in size and shrunk in name over the centuries, and only a few remembered.

Right now, Chuck was very glad that Castiel wasn’t claiming to be from San Francisco. That sort of thing didn’t go over too well in Kripke’s Hollow. Chuck tried to keep his face just as blank as Melanie’s was.

Her light blue eyes flicked up, then down, taking in Castiel’s slightly mussed hair, the loosened tie, the open coat. Then they flicked over Chuck, lingering on his mismatched socks. “Right,” Melanie said. “License and registration, please.”

Chuck handed her his license then pulled his registration card off the visor and gave that to her, too. Then he sat and waited, staring straight ahead and tapping his foot gently, while Castiel watched Melanie curiously as she made little notes on a pad of paper. Finally, she handed him back his license and registration then said, “Chuck, your left brake light is out.”

“It is?” Chuck asked, pretending amazement. “I’ll get that fixed right away, Melanie. Thanks for letting me know.” She gave him a narrowed-eyed look, checked out Castiel again, then nodded and walked away. Chuck breathed out a heavy sigh of relief and closed his eyes as the crunch of shoes on gravel faded away.

Castiel’s voice broke the silence. “Why are we still here?”

Chuck opened his eyes and tried not to sigh again. “We wait for the police officer to leave first.”

“Why?”

Chuck wasn’t sure. You just did. Maybe it was because you didn’t want to get pulled over again? Maybe it was because cops always got to go first. He couldn’t explain and he didn’t want to argue. Time for an out-of-the-blue segue; Castiel wouldn’t know the difference. “What do you want to talk to me about, Castiel?”

“What happened when Dean and Sam were in heaven?” he asked. “What did Joshua say?”

“They told you already.”

Castiel shook his head. “What they told me is not necessarily what was said. Their memories are … erratic.”

He meant defective, Chuck knew. Maybe Castiel was actually developing some tact. “I have that scene at home, if you want to read it.”

“I do. I can take us there or you can drive. The police officer Melanie Patterson is gone.”

“I’ll drive,” Chuck said, starting his car. But first things first. He drove to Possum Trot Liquors and parked the car.

Castiel looked at the sign and announced, “This is not your home. Why are we here?”

“I’m out of beer.”

“Ah.” Castiel nodded in understanding, for that was another thing Dean had taught him. “Beer is necessary.” He opened the car door but couldn’t get out. Chuck reached over and released the seat belt for him.

In the store, Chuck bought beer and tequila and whisky and vodka. “Do you want anything?” he asked Castiel, who was examining a bottle of Frangelica.

Castiel put it back on the shelf. “I do not drink.”

“Right. Of course.” Angels didn’t eat, either. “Let’s go.”

When they got in the car, Castiel put his seat belt on. Then he started asking questions, and Chuck found himself explaining seat belts, air bags, bumpers, and car crash fatality rates on the way back to the house. “Dean and Sam seem unacquainted with much of this,” Castiel observed as he carried a bag of bottles into the kitchen.

“Well,” Chuck said, “they have an old car.” He opened a beer and turned on his computer. Castiel stood by the desk, not moving or saying or doing anything, but somehow managing to radiate impatience all the same. The computer beeped and purred.

Chuck pulled his desk chair into position and clicked a few times. “Here,” Chuck said, pointing to the screen. “That is what Joshua said to the boys about God, word for word.” Chuck had typed it on a dark and rainy morning ten days ago. He’d left it as plain dialogue, like a screen play. He’d been doing that more and more these days. Castiel read every word, but the last two lines said it all.

_DEAN: So he’s just going to sit back and watch the world burn?_

_JOSHUA: I know how important this was to you, Dean. I’m sorry._

Castiel straightened up from reading. His face was completely calm. His eyes were dead. “It appears that Dean and Sam’s memories were accurate. I had hoped…” He turned away. Under his ever-present trench coat, his shoulders were slumped, and he seemed smaller somehow.

“You know, Joshua might be lying,” Chuck pointed out, because Joshua had answered Sam’s question “How do we know you’re not lying?” with another question, and his later line about “just trimming the hedges” simply screamed literary allusion to a line in a very famous play by a very famous playwright. Joshua was an obvious variation on the name Jesus, and so it sure looked like God had recruited his son into the family business of being “a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will”. And gardeners, by definition, interfered all the time: weeding, planting, watering, hewing, digging, composting…

Castiel swung around to look at him. “Dean and Sam believe Joshua was telling the truth.”

“Yes, well…” Chuck hadn’t been going to go there, but since Castiel had opened that door… “Dean and Sam believe you.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. If Chuck hadn’t known that the archangel Raphael would come down in a seriously smiteful mood if Castiel so much as lifted a finger, Chuck would have been (as the phrase went) “sore afraid”.

But Castiel glared for just a second more then disappeared. Chuck shivered and got a sudden craving for cinnamon buns. He popped a Hungry Man dinner in the microwave then sat down to write the scene of Castiel suddenly appearing at Possum Trot Liquors, drinking an entire bottle of Frangelica, and then starting in on the real booze.

Chuck ate his dinner at the table, staring out the window at the dark. He used to like to read while he ate, but he really needed a break from words sometimes. It didn’t help all that much; there were always words in his head, thoughts spinning ‘round.

Was God really lonely, the way Joshua had said? He must be, because God didn’t have anyone to talk with. No one else could do the job. Except maybe his son.

Was that garden just a literary symbol of the Garden of Eden, or was all of creation the garden of God? And if so, did that mean that Heaven’s Garden was everywhere, all the time, and people just didn’t recognize it?

And why wasn’t God stopping the apocalypse? Was he just tired of dealing with squabbles, the way Chuck’s parents had sometimes left Chuck and his brother to figure things out on their own? “Both of you, go to your room and stay there—together—until you can be civil to each other!” Mom would order when it got really bad, and Chuck and Tom would go sit on their beds, for hours sometimes, until they got bored enough to start talking to each other again.

Or was God tired of giving orders all the time? Did he want the angels to develop free will, to stand up to him and be more adult? Anna and Castiel had been hewing their own paths lately. Lucifer had been the first of the angels to disobey. Was Lucifer actually God’s favorite? Was that why Michael was so angry with him?

God loved all his creations, it was said, even when they disappointed him or turned evil. Chuck understood that. Authors loved all the characters in their books, even if they didn’t like them very much, even when the characters did horrible things to each other or made huge mistakes or were just plain annoying. You put care and energy and thought into the creation of a character, and if you did it right, they came alive and surprised you. They resisted your carefully thought-out plot. They refused to say that line of dialogue you had planned.

They disobeyed.

And _that_ was when the story worked best. That was when it was real. Then it was up to you to get into their heads to see what made them tick. You had to want what they wanted, hate what they hated, feel what they felt. You had to _be_ them. So you loved them.

And sometimes, you killed them. You might regret it, you might weep while you wrote the death, knowing it was necessary for the story, even if you didn’t know exactly how or why. God works in mysterious ways, it was said, mysterious even to himself sometimes, maybe.

“You can drive yourself nuts,” Chuck muttered to himself. Joshua definitely had that part right. Chuck opened the whisky and drank until the voices in his head were quiet, then fell asleep on the couch.

He woke to darkness, and started writing again. Sam and Dean were still fighting their way free of a pack of demons in the town of Blue Earth, Minnesota. They made it to a hardware store, and demon after demon succumbed to chainsaws, nail guns, and the like. The brothers saved each other’s lives again, and used a forklift to pin the demon against the wall. Sam was bleeding badly from the shoulder when they finally got back to the Impala, and they hightailed it out of town. Dean’s foot was pressing the accelerator to the floor, making his baby go as fast as she could go, and more demons were close behind. Then they came to the blockade, and Dean hit the brakes, tires screaming in the night. They soon joined up with the local Sacrament Lutheran Militia and got to work on cleaning up the town.

Meanwhile, back at Bobby’s….

Chuck stared at the little blinking cursor on the screen, opened another beer, thought about it for a while, then started to type.

_The last cute young thing to knock on Bobby Singer’s front door had been selling Girl Scout cookies. So when he answered his doorbell…_


	2. Down the Line

### 14 March 2010 - Sioux Falls, South Dakota

The last cute young thing to knock on Bobby Singer front door had been selling Girl Scout cookies. So when he answered his doorbell on Sunday afternoon and found an attractive young woman, he was pleasantly surprised, even though he’d known she’d be coming. She had dark hair and dark eyes, no makeup, a laptop but no purse, jeans and a sweater, and sensible boots instead of sexy heels. “Mr. Singer?” she asked.

“Yes, but call me Bobby,” he replied. The name “Mr. Singer” always made him look around for his dad.

“I’m Ruth Halston,” she announced. “Sam Winchester told you I was coming.”

Sam had been right about this girl being forthright. “Yeah, sure, glad you could make it,” Bobby said, wheeling his chair back and out of the way of the door. “Come on in.” She followed him into the hallway, eyeballing his chair, and he asked, “Never seen a wheelchair before?”

“Sure,” she said. “Sam didn’t mention you used one.”

Must be nice to be able to forget.

Ruth sat down on the dusty bench along the wall, so that they were looking eye to eye, and offered, “Want me to help you pimp your ride?”

* * *

 

He didn’t take her up on her offer to decorate his chair, but late on Monday morning when she asked if he’d minded if she cleaned something around the house, he protested only a little before he gave in. “I can’t read for hours and hours,” she explained, shoving a book away. “I need a break. And I’d like to get _something_ useful accomplished.” The translations hadn’t gone well.

“OK,” he said finally. “I’ll make us lunch.” He had made tuna fish sandwiches, even toasted the bread, sliced up an orange, and put a pickle on each plate. Usually he just ate straight out of the can.

On Monday, she cleaned the bathrooms. On Tuesday, she washed some windows. On Wednesday, she vacuumed the downstairs. When the racket stopped, he wheeled into the hallway to tell her lunch was ready and found her examining his rack of guns. “I can teach you to shoot, if you like,” he offered. She turned, looking a little surprised, and he added, “Sam did tell you this place is kind of a war zone, didn’t he?”

“He did,” she said. “And thanks. But I already know how to shoot.”

“Oh,” Bobby said, a little surprised himself, but relieved. “Your dad teach you? Or your brother?”

That got a hint of a grin. “My staff sergeant in boot camp.” Then she specified, “Parris Island.”

Well … damn. “Sam didn’t say you were a Marine.”

She lifted both eyebrows, looking thoughtful. “I don’t think it came up.” She shrugged. “I’m a civilian now.”

“Yeah, right,” Bobby muttered. Once a Marine, always a Marine, and her brother was still in the Corps. Or he had been, until Michael had used him up and tossed him aside a month ago. “Want to shoot later?” Bobby offered. “I got a target range out back.”

She grinned like a four-year-old who’d just been given a pile of candy when it wasn’t even Halloween. “I’d love to,” Ruth said. “I haven’t shot anything in a year and a half.”

Bobby grinned back, partly because she looked so happy and partly because he was looking forward to seeing the look on Sam and Dean’s faces when they found out. “First let’s eat,” Bobby said. “Food’s getting cold.” He’d made grilled cheese sandwiches (cut into triangles) and tomato soup today, with applesauce from a jar and Oreos for dessert.

Bobby waited until Ruth had finished saying a silent grace and crossed herself before he picked up his spoon and asked, “How long were you in?”

“Seven years.” She popped open a can of Mountain Dew. “Basic, Oki, and four years in Iraq.”

No wonder she hadn’t freaked out about walking into the war zone that was his life. “That’s why you’ve seen wheel chairs.”

“VA hospital. I was there for a while after my arm got hit eighteen months ago.” She held out her right hand in front of her and watched as she waggled her fingers. “I’ve still got them, and they all still work.” Ruth took a drink and shrugged again. “I was really lucky. Some of the guys…”

“Yeah,” Bobby muttered.

She was looking at him now. “When did you get the chair?”

“Last June.” He hadn’t wanted it, but lying in a hospital bed day after day was worse. “Got knifed during a fight with a demon.” It was his turn to shrug. “I was lucky.” He didn’t always think that—hell, he hardly ever thought that—but he knew it was true. He could be missing both his arms. Or maybe his eyes like Pamela. Or his entire face. He could be possessed. He could be in hell.

It could always be worse. “So you were … what? Right out of high school when you joined up?”

“Pretty much. Nathan and I graduated in May, and I went to the recruiting office on September eleventh. Nathan would have joined then, too, but he had a full scholarship to college, and classes had already started. Mom and Dad said he should do that first then join. He was afraid the war would be over by the time he graduated.” She dunked her piece of sandwich into her soup then looked up with a crooked grin. “Turns out that wasn’t a problem.”

“Yeah.” Bobby got back to eating, because there wasn’t much point in talking about that war. He had his own battles to fight.

Her phone beeped, and she put down her spoon. “It’s from Sam,” she announced, reading the little screen. “He says something else came up, and he and Dean probably wouldn’t make it here today, either.”

“Oh,” was all Bobby said, though when Sam had called late on Monday night, he’d said that Dean had taken off in the Impala and disappeared. “Blue Earth was rough; I think Dean’s planning to say yes to Michael,” Sam had said, his voice tight. “I think he went to say goodbye to Lisa.” Sam (with Castiel’s help) had spent all of Tuesday looking for Dean, checking hotel after hotel in Cicero, Indiana, where Dean’s old flame Lisa lived with her son, Ben. Sounded like Sam and Castiel hadn’t found Dean yet.

Bobby picked up another triangle of grilled cheese and ate half of it with one bite. “They’ll get here eventually.” He popped the rest of it in his mouth and chewed. “They always do.”

“Do Sam and Dean stay here a lot?” Ruth asked.

“They’re on the road mostly, but yeah, this is a home base for them. They sleep upstairs.” They used to sack out in the living room, but Bobby had laid claim to the downstairs now, and the boys snored. Then Bobby remembered that Ruth had mentioned she was staying in a hotel in town. That got expensive real fast. “Do you need a place to stay?” he asked. “I mean, you know, what with the money and all and… There are three bedrooms upstairs, and I ain’t using any of them.”

“I’m fine, Bobby,” Ruth said. “Thanks.”

She had a real pretty smile. He smiled back, wondering if Sam might someday catch a break with the demon-crap and stop being such an idjit about girls. What the hell kind of answer was, “Um, yeah, I guess”? Was the boy blind?

“What’s the difference between archangels, angels, seraphim, and cherubim?” Ruth asked.

“The lore’s a little different, depending on which tradition: Hebrew, Christian, Muslim, or whatever,” Bobby cautioned her. “Generally, seraphim have six wings and are the most powerful. Archangels are seraphim. Cherubim are next; they have four faces and four wings. They guard the ark of the covenant. Then come ophanim, which look like wheels but still with wings. Finally hashmallim, two wings and a human body.”

“The way we usually think of angels,” she said.

“Right,” he agreed. “But ‘angel’ just means messenger. Anybody with a message from God is an angel, no matter what rank they are.” They finished lunch by talking about angel lore, how a “choir of angels” didn’t mean singing, how a cupid wasn’t really a cherub, and what nephilim were. As he opened the package of Oreos, Bobby asked her, “Do you know your family tree?”

“My dad researched his side back to the Civil War and did some of my mom’s, too. Why?”

“Michael told the boys they were part of some ancient bloodline, which is why they can be vessels for archangels.”

“Sam, too?”

“Uh…yeah.” Bobby didn’t go into the Lucifer thing. “That’s why Michael wants Dean. I did some research into the Winchester family last month, and I got to wondering if Nathan was maybe…”

“…maybe part of the bloodline too,” she finished. “Let’s find out.” She stood, gathering the dishes. “You get out the research you’ve done, and I’ll clean up in here while I call my dad and get some names.”

Bobby wheeled into the living room and pulled out the Winchester family files. About the time he had the table cleared off and the chart unrolled, Ruth came in, her phone to her ear. “—isolate genetic factors, Dad, so Dr. Singer needs our family tree. Oh, just send all of it. I’ll sort through it. Can you attach the file and send it to me right now? Thanks! I’ll call you and Mom tonight, at eight like always. Love you, too, Dad.”

She pulled out a chair and sat at the table as Bobby scratched his beard and asked, “’Doctor‘ Singer?”

She shrugged, waving a hand around the cluttered, shabby room. “You’re a specialist. This is your clinic.”

Well, he’d impersonated FBI agents and health inspectors. Why not a doctor, too? “Here’s the Winchester family tree,” he said, pointing to the chart. “Any names look familiar?”

She read it over then shook her head. “Let me see if Dad’s file showed up yet.” She punched and clicked her gadget, and in a minute or so she had a list of names. “What do you know,” Ruth murmured. “My mother’s mother is Renata Winchester, born 1923, died 1958.”

Bobby shook his head. “She’s not on the chart. Got any of her relatives?”

“Her brother is Caleb; her father is Clarence.”

“Bingo,” Bobby said with satisfaction. “John’s father is Caleb Winchester, born 1920, died 1955. Caleb’s dad was Clarence. Dates match?”

“Yes,” Ruth said, leaning over to look at the chart. “So, that means Dean and Sam and Nathan and I are…”

“Second cousins,” Bobby supplied. “I guess Michael thought that would work, but—”

“But it didn’t,” she broke in grimly. Ruth looked at the Campbell side of the chart then went back to her list. “Their maternal grandmother is Deanna Courier?”

“Yeah. That’s as far as I went.”

“I can add more,” Ruth said then filled in a bunch of names and dates. She flipped the chart around for Bobby to see. “Renata Winchester’s husband was James Courier, Deana’s younger brother.”

“Damn.” Bobby examined the crossing lines. “That means you’re second cousins on the mother’s side, too. Double second cousins.”

“Which side does the bloodline come through?”

“I thought it was John’s, but … maybe both? Maybe if we went back farther, we’d see more connections.” The angels had to have been breeding these bloodlines for generations, for millennia, back to Cain and Abel and Adam and Eve. John and Mary had probably been related to each other somehow. That’s how you strengthened a trait, kept crossbreeding it back in. And you’d want more than one line, in case something went wrong. Castiel’s vessel was part of a bloodline, too. Maybe all vessels were cousins, somehow.

“Everybody on this chart is dead, except my family and Sam and Dean,” Ruth observed. She pointed to a name at the bottom. “Even their half-brother Adam died last year, and he was only nineteen. Winchesters don’t live long?”

“Doesn’t seem so,” Bobby admitted. “And a few years back, a demon named Azazel took out everyone related to the boys’ mom.”

“To wipe out vessels for the archangels?”

“Maybe,” he said slowly. He’d always thought it was just plain ornery evilness, but maybe killing her family had been deliberate, and killing her friends had been for fun. “Looks like your family escaped the purge.”

Ruth lifted her pop can in an ironic toast. “We had an angel watching over us.”

Just like Sam and Dean. Great. Bobby rolled up the chart and snapped the rubber band around it tight. “Ready to shoot?” he asked.

She grinned and said again, “I’d love to.”

~ ~ ~

* * *

 

Outside, between two lines of junked cars, Ruth set up some paper targets on the earthen backstop. She put on ear protectors and used both a rifle and a handgun. Her first set was terrible; she was out of practice and her right arm was lacking both steadiness and strength. But after an hour of shooting, she was managing to at least stay in the ring most of the time. She’d do better tomorrow.

She hoped the research would be better, too. The stuff in Bobby’s books was unbelievable, in various mixtures of creepy and amazing and interesting and weird, but she hadn’t found anything so far that would help her fix Nathan or stop Michael. She hoped Sam could help when he finally arrived.

As Ruth came into the kitchen, she heard men’s voices in the living room, so she grabbed a pop from the fridge and went to see. Bobby was on the couch in front of the window, looking like he’d just woken up from his nap, and Dean was pacing the floor. He wasn’t looking much better than Bobby; his eyes were red-rimmed and tired.

“Hey, Ruth,” he greeted her.

“Hey, Dean. Didn’t expect to see you here today. Where’s Sam?” she asked.

“Driving my car,” Dean replied sourly.

“It is a thirteen-hour drive from Indiana to here,” a rough voice supplied from behind her. “Sam should arrive well before sunrise.”

Ruth turned in surprise because she hadn’t heard anyone come in, though the swirl of cold air around her ankles probably meant an open door somewhere. Standing in the wide doorway between the kitchen and the living room was a dark-haired man with bright blue eyes, dressed in a knee-length tan coat over a dark suit. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, and his blue tie was askew. His dress shoes were muddy, and he needed a shave. His hair was messy, but at least it wasn’t as long as Sam’s.

The newcomer was looking at her just as intently as she was looking at him. He seemed familiar somehow. Ruth met his gaze and announced, “My name is Ruth Halston.”

“She’s a friend,” Bobby put in.

“I am Castiel,” the man replied. The sound of his name hung heavy in the air, and he made no effort to shake hands.

“Castiel,” Ruth repeated, and suddenly she realized who—what—he was. Casti-el. An angel of God. That draft of cold air hadn’t been from an open door; this angel moved without wings. She swallowed in a mouth suddenly gone dry, but stood her ground.

The angel tilted its head quizzically, somehow managing to look like a curious kitten. A kitten who would enjoy disemboweling tiny furry creatures or ripping legs and wings off bugs. That was when Ruth knew where she’d seen this angel before: in her dream eighteen months ago, the very first time she’d dreamed of angels. Recognizing him made no sense, because Castiel was in a vessel now, but somehow Ruth knew.

“You’re the angel who went into hell,” she said. “When the black octopus made spiders and the other angels burned them all.”

“What?” Dean demanded, but Ruth was busy so she ignored him.

“You are not a prophet,” Castiel declared, its eyes narrowing. “How do you know this?”

“I saw it. In a dream.” A nightmare. For weeks afterward, she’d heard the screams of dying angels. “What were you carrying, when you came out?” she asked, for she had wondered that for a year and a half.

Dean cleared his throat and raised his hand then once again said, as he had in the bar, “That would be me.”

This, Ruth couldn’t ignore. “You were in hell?”

“I was.” Dean’s eyes, bleak and haunted, gave truth to his words. The lines around his mouth were marks of pain, lips held tight to keep from screaming. She’d seen that type of look before on the battlefield. In hospital beds. In a homeless man’s eyes.

“I drew Dean forth so that he could serve as Heaven’s vessel in the fight against Hell,” Castiel explained.

Ruth swung back to the angel and demanded, “You want him to say yes to Michael?”

Castiel shook his head. “Not anymore. Things have changed.” Then he fixed Dean with a fiercely righteous glare. “For everyone.”

Bobby sighed and shook his head, muttering, “Damn it, boy,” then heaved himself into his wheelchair and moved to the place of authority, sitting behind his desk. “What happened in Blue Earth, Dean?”

“People died,” Dean answered shortly. Everyone was looking at him, waiting for more, and he abruptly declared, “I’m getting a beer,” then stalked into the kitchen.

Ruth sat on the straight-backed chair near Bobby’s desk and waited. Castiel stood where he was, staring at Ruth, studying her. “What?” she finally asked, because it was creeping her out.

“You are different than most humans,” he told her just as Dean came back in with his beer. “There is a … glow about you.”

Dean spluttered and choked and barely hung onto his beer bottle. “She’s pregnant?” he demanded.

“No,” Ruth answered immediately, just as Castiel also said, “No.” She shot both him and Dean a glare of mingled outrage and irritation; how would Castiel know, anyway, and why in the world would Dean ask him instead of her?

“Pregnant humans do look different,” Castiel went on, “but not in this way.”

“What way?” she asked, trying to keep her tone calm.

“Brighter.”

Ruth waited, but the angel didn’t say anything more, and she didn’t like this conversation anyway. She didn’t like angels. She turned from him and asked Dean, “Who died in Blue Earth?”

He sighed and straddled the chair on the other side of Bobby’s desk, sitting on it backwards so that he could rest his elbows on its back. The beer bottle dangled loosely in his hand. “Leah Gideon, daughter of the minister. A teenager named Dylan. Paul the bartend—”

“Dylan?” she broke in. “Dylan Barstow? Were his parents named Rob and Jane?”

“Yeah. Did you know him?”

“I used to babysit him when I was in high school. He liked Batman. And cinnamon toast cut into strips.” For the umpteenth time this month, she had to blink back sudden and unwanted tears.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, but unlike when most people usually said that, he actually sounded like he meant it.

She hid her sniffles and stinging eyes by taking a drink from her pop and murmuring, “Thanks.”

“Dean,” Castiel asked, “how did you meet this woman?”

“In a library. Research project.”

Ruth slammed her can down on the desk and answered the question herself: “I told Dean and Sam I wanted to learn how to kill an angel.”

Dean choked on his beer again, but Castiel just flicked her a glance before going back to watching Dean. Bobby sucked in air before touching her arm. “Uh, Ruth,” Bobby said quietly, “Castiel’s a friend.”

“An angel friend?”

“Just one,” Dean told her then explained to Castiel: “Michael took Ruth’s twin brother out for a spin last month then left him high and dry. Her brother’s been in the hospital for over a week.”

“Oh,” Castiel said. Then he looked at her, instead of examining her, and said, “I am sorry.” Just like Dean, he actually sounded sincere.

“Thanks,” she muttered then added her own, “I’m sorry,” and she meant it, too.

“Michael was trying out another branch of the family tree,” Bobby announced into the silence then when Dean looked confused, explained, “She’s your cousin.”

“Second-cousin,” Ruth added. “From both sides: mother and father.”

“No kidding,” Dean said with a slow nod. He twisted to say, “Hey, Cas—”

But Castiel was gone. The kitchen was cold again, and the air was dusty sweet. “Damn it,” Dean swore. “I hate it when he does that.”

Ruth didn’t like it, either. She ditched her pop and went to get a beer. She needed one after that. “Bobby?” she called, and he yelled back, “Hell, yes!” and Dean said, “Me, too!” so Ruth brought back three bottles and they sat around Bobby’s desk and drank, while Dean kept sneaking odd looks her way. She couldn’t get mad about that; she was doing the same thing to him. This cousin thing was weird. But it wasn’t really that important now.

“What else haven’t you told me?” Ruth asked. “Besides you going to hell and having an angel buddy.”

“Want a list?” Dean asked in exasperation then sighed and settled down. “Look, there’s a hell of a lot of stuff going on.”

“Literally,” she tossed back at him.

“Yeah, literally,” he agreed. “OK fine. Here’s the quick version: I died. I went to hell. While I was there, I broke the first seal to Lucifer’s cage. Then Castiel pulled me out, because the rest of the seals were being broken by demons. I was supposed to help stop that, but I failed. Sam accidentally broke the last seal, and Lucifer got free.” Dean moodily picked at the label on his beer bottle then took a drink and went on.

“That was almost a year ago. Along the way, we found out some angels were helping to break the seals, because they want the apocalypse, too. That’s when Castiel decided to stop being heaven’s tool. But we can’t stop the apocalypse, and—”

“Dean—,” Bobby began.

“We can’t, Bobby,” Dean told him. “It’s time to stop marching along like good little soldiers and start facing the music for a change. We can’t stop it. But what I can do is to fix the mess I made. That’s my job. Michael needs me to be his vessel, and I’m going to say yes, so we can defeat Lucifer and close down hell.”

Ruth slowly set down her beer. “I told you what being Michael’s vessel did to my brother. Do you really think you’ll survive?

“No.” Dean’s eyes were bleak and haunted again. “Not really. Even if I am the cousin he’s been waiting for.” He added a smile and a shrug, trying to make it a joke, but his shrug was of desperation and his smile was of pain.

She’d seen that kind of smile before, on men who’d decided it was their time to die.

“But nobody else is going to die or get hurt because I won’t do my God-damned job,” Dean went on, with a fierce quiet intensity more powerful than any shout. “Nobody else. Not like you, Bobby. Not like Pamela or Jo or Ellen or Ash. Not like Dylan.”

Dean looked at Ruth to vow, “And not like your brother, Nathan.” Then Dean stood and walked out, slamming the door on his way out of the house.

 

* * *

 

“For greater love hath no man,” Castiel murmured, watching unseen from behind the veil as Dean left Bobby’s house to walk among broken cars. Sometimes, Dean would touch a rusted hulk, laying a hand as if to heal, murmuring words of appreciation or sympathy. Castiel had heard Dean call his own vehicle “baby” and “darling.” Castiel was certain that cars did not have souls, but some humans treated their cars as beloved companions and showered them with devotion and care.

He had asked Dean about that once. “You take care of your car,” Dean had explained, “and it will take care of you.” The true reason lay silent, hidden in his heart: A car could not leave you. It could not disappoint or betray. Not like humans. Not like Dean’s father.

Not like God.

“You’re losing faith,” Joshua had told Dean, but faith was not merely lost; it was ripped away and destroyed. Castiel could no longer proclaim _Credo._ He no longer trusted in God. He could no longer believe. He had abandoned Heaven and forsaken his kind to place his trust in Dean and even Sam, weak, flawed humans though they were.

Castiel could see that Dean thought he was doing right, but the path to self-sacrifice was treacherously close to the path of self-destruction, and they looked much the same. Dean’s soul was tinged with the blue of determination, but it was shot through with broken shards of gray and jagged spikes of red. Dean was acting from despair instead of hope.

Sam’s soul was also blue, but the demon taint within him pulsed and roiled in a sickening gray-green ooze, its tendrils uncoiling, trying to grip tight and strangle, trying to grow. Castiel could never look at Sam for long.

Bobby’s soul shone with tiny flickers of many colors, as did most humans. He was sitting in his kitchen now, cleaning guns and talking with Ruth about Sam and Dean and angels. Ruth’s soul was ablaze, with a flare of brilliant white that washed all the other colors away.

Castiel took one last look at Dean, who was sitting on the ground with his back against the side of a dirty white van and throwing pebbles at his empty bottle of beer. His expression was moody, and the mood did not look good. Talking would probably not work right now. Castiel went to Bobby’s kitchen and stepped out from behind the veil.

Bobby half-swallowed a curse when Castiel appeared. Ruth jerked in surprise and swung her gun to point directly at his head. Seen that way, the barrel of a rifle looked as black and empty as a demon’s eye. Interesting.

“It ain’t loaded, Ruth,” Bobby said dryly. “And it wouldn’t work anyway. I’ve tried.”

“Habit,” she said as she lowered the gun. “Sorry.” She went back to wiping the weapon with a soft white cloth and glanced up at Castiel. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“Habit,” he replied. Castiel joined Bobby and Ruth at the table. Humans seemed to prefer to talk sitting down. “Your brother’s soul is also bright,” he reported. “But not so much as yours.”

Her hands stopped and her eyes narrowed, a sign of suspicion. “And how do you know that?”

“I just saw him.”

“But Nathan’s in—” She glanced at Bobby then said, “Teleporting. Right.” Ruth set the gun on the table. “Michael told me Nathan’s ‘vessel’ couldn’t ‘contain’ his soul anymore. Is it—”

“Michael spoke to you?” Castiel asked in surprise, for archangels rarely spoke to angels, let alone humans. Except for the Winchesters. And, apparently, their cousins. “In one of your dreams?”

She nodded. “Last week I prayed, and then Michael came in a dream. But when Nathan and I were little, Michael came to our garden. We saw him then; he was all wings and eyes and flame.”

Only a few humans could withstand an angel’s true presence. Dean could not, though others of his bloodline could. Also, children often saw more clearly than adults. Michael had obviously been preparing the twins for years. But for what? If the male was to have been Michael’s vessel, why bother with the female? Perhaps she was intended to be the vessel for another angel. Perhaps she was to have been the mother of children by Sam or Dean. Or perhaps Michael had decided to sire children of his own.

“Please,” Ruth said urgently, “how is Nathan? You saw his soul, so it’s not gone, right?”

“His vessel is not empty,” Castiel reassured her. “But the link between body and soul is … tenuous.” The link was hanging in tattered shreds, only a few gossamer lines still connected, instead of the dense interweaving that usually bound body and soul together. Those lines would break soon, and then Nathan’s body would die. His soul would ascend to Heaven and find its true home.

Ruth was nodding slowly, her hands holding tight to each other. “Michael wouldn’t heal him.” She looked at Castiel, her eyes glistening with the tears she had tried to blink away. “Can you?”

“It is beyond my power.” Many things were these days. He had cut himself off from Heaven, and he could not heal even Bobby’s simple wound. But what Castiel could do, he would. Ruth might prove useful, but not only to him. He needed to thwart Michael’s plans, whatever they were.

“But I can give both you and your brother protection,” Castiel told her, “so that angels cannot find you unless you call them by name. I have done this for both Dean and Sam.”

“It’s those Enochian sigils I told you about,” Bobby said.

“Yes,” she said, standing up, her arms held away from her body. “Go ahead.”

Castiel appreciated not having to explain. He stood and placed his hands on her sides. His thumbs barely touched the undersides of her breasts. “This will hurt,” he warned her. She shrugged, and he closed his eyes and carved the sigils into her bones, starting low and moving up each rib until her collarbone, then searing her breastbone with the sigils of the sun and the moon.

He let go and stepped back. Ruth’s face was pale and her jaw was set, and she was breathing rapidly through her nose. “Go to Nathan,” she gritted out, and Castiel went back to the hospital room, did the same to her twin, tasted Nathan’s blood, and returned.

Dean was still sitting outside, watching the sun go down. He was still moody. Castiel joined Ruth and Bobby in the kitchen again. This time, she jumped only a little, and the gun had been put away.

“Ruth,” Castiel asked, “when did you and Nathan first drink angel blood?”


	3. Still a Chance

### The Garden of Heaven

"Michael will be pleased," the Mother says, sensing the shift of the lights inside Dean's soul.

"Lucifer still waits," the Son replies. "It is not yet time."

"True," she agrees, and they start to walk again along the path, arm in arm, for they have chosen human form for now. In her footsteps, tiny white flowers arise, islands of life amid scattered dead leaves. Leaves, still growing, flutter above them as they walk within a cathedral of trees. "Nor has it yet come to pass," she says. "It may never come to pass."

"Humans are not ruled by prophecy," the Son notes. "Such is the Father's gift of free will. Thus the pattern is always changing, always alive." He watches a bird alight upon a branch, feels her warbling song in his heart, and he smiles in delight. She comes to him, feet sharp upon his finger. On his other hand alights a beetle, wings glimmering gold. He brings his hands together, and the bird feasts upon the beetle, one life feeding another. This too is delightful, for the pattern of life must include death, and all are intertwined. "As the garden is always changing."

"True again. Nevertheless, Michael will be pleased. And so," she adds with a careful sigh, "will Zachariah."

Mother and Son exchange a flicker of resigned amusement and exasperation. "Your angels," he observes, "are very proud. It is their undoing."

"It is their salvation," she corrects gently.

The bird on his finger flies away and disappears. "So the Father left them." The pupils of the Son's eyes hold all the vast blackness of space. "To give them room to grow."

"He does love to be surprised." A smile flirts with her lips and eyes as she looks up at the Son. "You surprised him."

"He surprised me." His voice is nearly as deep as the Father's now. He touches a tree trunk, the bark rough under his hand, the sap running just beneath, the heartwood straight-grained and strong. This, too, would die someday. As would he. As would the Father and the Mother and the angels all. The Great Reaper would come for them all.

But Death was not an ending, for nothing ever really ends. The pattern of life and death is eternal, a terrible beauty to be borne.

Still, he is curious about the current twists and bends. "What of Ruth?" he asks. "And the brothers?"

"I will see my daughter soon," the Mother replies. "Dean and Sam have a little farther to go. As for Michael and Lucifer…" She sighs again, a patience born of tragic necessity. "They will have their time together." With a hand dark as earth and warm as sunshine, she reaches out to touch a light pink bud on the tree. In exquisite slowness, the petals unfurl in lovely bloom, pink flushing to scarlet above glossy leaves of dark green.

"And Gabriel?" the Son asks.

She lays a finger on the flower, and the scarlet petals fall one by one, dappling her slender feet with droplets as red as blood. A tiny green fruit swells, ripens to a honey-gold, and falls into her waiting hand. "Gabriel has served us well. He has been away from home too long." She eats the fruit, savoring every bite, then licks dark juice from dark hands. On the tree, other buds wait, tightly furled.

The Mother changes, butterfly bright and beautiful. She lights upon an iris of purple and gold to drink the nectar there. Her wings spread, shimmer and grow until they spread across the sky and merge with the clouds. From there she joins the stars, taking her rightful place upon heaven's throne.

The Son tends the garden. In careful hands he holds the earth, ever living, ever dying, changing all the time.


	4. Blood Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel spills the beans about Lucifer's plans, and Ruth dreams of angel deaths.

### 17 March 2010, Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Ruth stared at Castiel, trying to make sense of his question about drinking angel blood. “When did we do _what_?”

“You mean like Sam?” Bobby asked, almost at the same time.

“Not like Sam,” Castiel said with disgust. “He drinks demon blood.”

“He drinks demon blood?” Ruth repeated in disbelief, but sharing the angel’s disgust. Although, drinking angel blood didn’t sound all that much better.

“Blood’s blood,” Bobby said with a shrug, echoing her thoughts. “Ask a vamp.”

“Sam drinks from demons like a vampire?” Ruth asked, feeling her stomach knot. This was getting way beyond weird and into sickeningly gross. She was also starting to feel kind of stupid in this conversation.

“No, not like a vampire. I mean, well, he…” Bobby floundered and finally finished with, “He doesn’t have fangs.”

Right. Ruth found herself imagining other ways—also disturbing and disgusting—to drink demon blood. Were these demons in human form, or did they have horns and tails?

“Anyway,” Bobby went on doggedly, “Sam hasn’t touched a drop in nearly a year.”

“Oh, good,” Ruth said, and the words were a fight between sarcasm and real relief.

“He has,” Castiel contradicted. “Last month when we confronted Famine, Sam drank demon blood.”

“Everybody was doing crazy stuff then. I heard about you and the hamburgers.”

“That was temporary,” Castiel replied calmly then proclaimed, “Sam is an abomination, and he will carry the taint until he dies.”

“It’s not Sam’s fault that a demon infected him when he was only six months old,” Bobby objected.

“No,” Castiel agreed, “but it is why Lucifer has claimed him as his own.”

“Who?” Ruth asked, trying to get a handle on this conversation that was going way too fast. “And ‘his own’ what?”

“Lucifer. His own vessel,” Castiel said, and when she shook her head, he explained, “Michael and Lucifer plan to fight the Apocalypse using Dean and Sam as their vessels.”

Ruth opened her mouth in surprise then shut it with a snap. The Winchesters hadn’t mentioned that, either. They had said that Michael and Lucifer would need vessels, but she had been so focused on Michael that she hadn’t thought about Lucifer at all.

Lucifer, once known as Samael, bringer of death, the angel who brought souls to God. Lucifer, bringer of light, Prince of Darkness.

Satan.

As Staff Sergeant Zimsky would have said: Welcome to Shitsville, boys and girls. Ruth breathed out slowly, trying to figure out what the hell was going on in this bizarre war.

Castiel had turned to Bobby to observe, “You did not tell her.”

They hadn’t told her a lot of things. Ruth understood the necessity of “need to know” and keeping intel contained, but you still didn’t treat your allies totally like mushrooms.

Bobby was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “That was Sam’s call,” he muttered.

“And I’m going to call him on it,” Ruth promised. She turned to Castiel and answered his earlier question. “I have never drunk angel blood,” she declared. But she had to add, “Not that I remember.”

“Maybe she was six months old,” Bobby put in. “Like Sam.”

“Possibly,” Castiel allowed, his eyes narrowing as he examined her—again. Then he disappeared. Again.

“Damn it,” both Bobby and Ruth said at the same time. Ruth shoved her chair back and stood. “Hey, Ruth, I’m sorry about not telling you,” Bobby began. “But…”

“It’s OK,” she said, and she took her time pushing her chair back neatly under the table. “Like you said, it was Sam’s call.” She glanced out the kitchen window as she redid her ponytail. It was getting dark. “I’m heading out, Bobby. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Bobby nodded but followed her to the door. “That demon stuff, and Lucifer…,” he began then ended with saying simply, “Sam’s a good kid. Really.”

Ruth nodded. “I know.” On her way to her car, she waved to Dean but didn’t stop to chat. She wasn’t in the mood. Dean probably wasn’t, either. Castiel was nowhere to be seen.

The next day as usual, Ruth got up at six, went running, showered and dressed at her hotel, packed a breakfast then went to Mass. She ate in the car. Today, Ruth stopped at the grocery store on her way to Bobby’s house and picked up a few things. The salvage yard and house were quiet, but Dean’s black car was parked outside, so that meant Sam had finally arrived.

Ruth found Bobby in the kitchen, talking on one of his many phones. He waved good-morning and pointed to the coffee, so she poured herself a cup and freshened his for him. He hung up the phone as she was unpacking groceries.

“What’s with the chow?” Bobby asked. “Tired of tuna fish sandwiches and grilled cheese?”

“I adore your tuna fish sandwiches and grilled cheese,” she told him sincerely. “But yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day, and it put me in the mood for Irish food.” Plus, she’d been kind of rude. Food was an apology. And a way to get people to talk. She needed more intel.

“You Irish?”

“My dad’s mom was half Irish and half Italian. She taught me how to cook.”

“Corned beef and cabbage?” he asked suspiciously.

Ruth shuddered. She’d never liked that dish. “Hash and soda bread. With spaghetti. And beer, of course.”

“Of course,” Bobby agreed. “It sounds great. Thanks.”

As she got a knife to peel potatoes, she asked, “Where are Sam and Dean?”

“Asleep upstairs. I hope. Sam didn’t get in until three, and Dean’s not sleeping well these days.”

“And Castiel?”

Bobby shrugged. “No idea.”

That suited Ruth just fine. She spent the morning either reading old tomes or cooking while Bobby filled her in on some things, and she learned a lot about the coming apocalypse, the four Horsemen, the Winchesters’ recent trip to heaven and an absentee God, and what Lucifer could do. It didn’t look good.

Sam showed up around eleven, sniffed the air and said, “Wow, does that smell good! Is it ready?”

“Not for an hour or so. There’s coffee.”

He poured himself a mugful and leaned against a wall, still yawning. “So, double second-cousins, huh?”

“Guess so. At least now we know why Michael chose Nathan.”

“Right.”

She gave Sam another five seconds to start talking, but all he did was sip at his coffee, so she said, “I didn’t know Lucifer had chosen you.”

Sam went very still for a second then sat down across from her at the table and stared into his coffee. Finally, he met her eyes. “It’s not something I like to talk about.”

“I can see why.” Ruth had a hard enough time imagining Dean being the vessel of an angel; she sure couldn’t imagine Sam as being inhabited by the devil. Even if he did have demon blood in him. He probably didn’t like to talk about that, either, so Ruth went for the oblique approach. “Did Bobby tell you Castiel said Nathan and I had angel blood in us?”

“Yeah.” His grin was twisted into bitterness, and he lifted his mug to her in a toast. “Guess you lucked out.” This time, she waited longer, while Sam drew complicated and meaningless patterns on the table with his forefinger. Finally he gave up on that and explained, “The demon blood made me powerful, Ruth. With it, I could exorcise demons, even kill them. I could save people.” He leaned forward a little, his hands open and pleading. “I was taking something evil and using it to do good.”

“Can good come from evil?” she asked him.

“Can evil come from good?” he shot back.

Ruth had to think about that. “I suppose,” she said slowly. “Since God made everything, then he must have made evil, too.” She shook her head. “Drinking blood is still disgusting.”

Sam almost laughed. “In this job, I’ve been up to my elbows in entrails. I’ve disemboweled and beheaded and butchered all kinds of creatures.” He shrugged. “After all that, drinking blood doesn’t seem so bad.”

You could get used to anything, after a while. “How did you get the blood?” Ruth asked, driven by curiosity, and—just possibly—a need to know.

“I had a donor,” Sam replied then took his mug and left the kitchen before she could ask anything more.

Ruth followed him onto the porch, letting the screen door slam behind her. Sam was too tall to lean his elbows on the rickety porch railing, so he was leaning his shoulder against a wall again. Ruth stood next to him, and they both stared straight ahead at the piles of old wrecks, lightly dusted with snow. The sky was milky white, and the air was fresh and cold.

“What happened in Blue Earth?” she asked. “To make Dean decide to say yes to Michael?”

Sam let out a slow and careful gust of air. “Dean was already pretty down, after Joshua told us God wouldn’t help. Then in Blue Earth, we thought we’d taken out all the demons, but we’d missed one, and it grabbed Dylan. We couldn’t save him. He died in Dean’s arms.”

Ruth closed her eyes, seeing once more the kid she used to take care of, and understanding now why Dean really had cared.

“And he couldn’t stop the townspeople from killing Paul,” Sam went on. “The body the main demon was using was about eighteen and looked like the girl next door. Dean killed her. That’s never easy. And then her dad…”

“I get it,” Ruth said. Hammer anyone hard enough and long enough, and they’ll break. Or choose death, just to get the pain to stop. “Do you think you’ll ever say yes to Lucifer?”

“No way in hell,” Sam vowed.

Ruth nodded but said nothing. That was just about what Dean had said, only a few days ago.

* * *

 

Lunch was a disaster. Oh, the food turned out OK, and people ate it and said nice things about it and asked for more, but nobody had anything much to say. Ruth’s one or two questions about their family fell dead. Sam and Bobby were pissed off at Dean, and she was kind of pissed off at the Winchester brothers, and Dean was pissed off at the world.

Then Castiel magically appeared and stood there silently, watching them eat, until Dean said, “Damn it, Cas, stop looming over us like a vulture and pull up a chair.” That pissed off Bobby, since it was his house and he was the host. Ruth got up and brought in another chair from the other room for Castiel, since Bobby obviously couldn’t and the other three hadn’t moved. Castiel sat down, his hands quietly on his lap, and watched them eat from there.

Dean finished quickly, muttered his thanks to Ruth, and slammed his way out the door again. Bobby and Sam sighed, and Castiel magically disappeared. A huge family argument was brewing; Ruth could see the signs. And even if she was a double second-cousin, she wasn’t family. “I’m going home after lunch, Bobby,” Ruth announced. “I’ve been gone over a week. I want to see my folks.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Bobby said, sounding a little surprised and a lot relieved. “You’re welcome to come back, you hear? When things aren’t so…”

“Fucked up?” she offered, and both Sam and Bobby laughed.

“They’re always fucked up,” Sam said, the smile still lingering on his face, his gaze honest and clear.

He was a handsome man, in a lot of ways. Ruth just wished he would cut his hair.

“I’ll do the dishes,” Sam told her. “If you go now, you could get home before dark.”

Definitely a handsome man. Ruth made her goodbyes: a quick hug with her new-found cousin, and a kiss on the cheek for Bobby, once she’d gotten his hat out of the way. He smelled of whisky and woodsmoke, and his handshake was strong.

“I meant it,” he said, holding onto her hand. “You’re welcome to come back. Anytime. We got more research to do.”

“Right,” she agreed. “We’re not done yet.”

* * *

That night, back at her parents’ house, she dreamt of angels dying under leafless trees, stabbed to death with silver blades, killed by Castiel. She knew him now, and not only in dreams.

The next day, visiting Nathan in the hospital, she dozed in the chair and dreamed once again.

Castiel was walking cautiously in an echoing, sunless room. With a silver blade, he stabbed an angel in the heart. Then four other angels surrounded him, and all of them had blades. Castiel called to them, luring them closer, then dropped his blade to touch a blood sign on his bare chest. All five disappeared in a blaze of light. The light faded to reveal a room of white and gold, and Sam and another young man were on the floor. Dean stood before an angel, so close it was nearly an embrace, and in his hand was a silver blade.

In a swift upward jab, Dean jammed the blade up through the softness behind the chin, skewering the tongue to the roof of the mouth, plunging into the brain. The angel broiled alive from the inside. When he fell, his wings appeared, etched in black ash on either side.

Ruth woke, kissed her brother and wiped her tears from both their cheeks, then promised him, “Michael is going to pay.” She said goodbye to her parents then headed for Bobby’s, because now she knew for sure that angels could die by human hands.

First, she needed that blade.

* * *

 

In the vast halls of heaven, where screams find no echo, Castiel awaited discipline.


End file.
